It had only been a day since Minerva had left Seafarer's Way, but to a drunken Ebenezer, it felt like days.
It had only been three months since they had gotten married, and still, it felt like they had put up with each other for nothing short of a decade, and each and every shred of affection they' had had for one another had scabbed over with disgust.
He was sprawled across what was supposed to be their bed, eyes squeezed shut as his ale-filled belly churned and whirred with discontent. He regretted having drank that last tumbler, but he couldn't reverse what had already happened.
He had become a regular in the Sullen Sailor; all the barflies knew him by name, but called him the Merry Ginger, even though his demeanor was far from merry. Minerva had left that morning and had only grabbed a handful of things. He had been splayed out across the chaise, just dozing off...
extra, extra, read all about it
let your eyes skim the toxic inks and let the darkness of it all sink into the whorls of
retain, refrain, digest repeat
in vienna people sway to spells of smoke filled bars and let the weight of the workday disappear in amber ales.
so, why don't we go?
we can take our phones off the hooks and disappear for awhile. it's okay to miss a day or two, you crazy child.
because you know what?
vienna waits for you.
little lies perch on my conscience and feed on my good deeds,
if i give a stranger a little smile, my feet will cause me to flee
oh little lies, how far you've grown into blackened beings of your own
you've consumed my very aura, and destroyed your roots, right from
the seeds in which you were sown.
you can't really be racist towards white people.
let me start off by saying that i'm half white, and am considerably white passing, so this..piece may seem a bit odd, but hear me out.
white people weren't the ones in the holds of cargo ships that took native African people from their homes and brought them to the Americas, only to have them sold like commodities.
white people weren't the ones being spat on and whipped, but rather the ones whipping and spitting.
white people aren't the ones who were scrutinized for their skin color; something you cannot control. they are the ones, the hateful ones, that do the pointing and jeering.
let me rephrase my opening sentence; you can't really be racist towards white people, because the insults that brand them aren't ones that are heavy with the weight of survival, hardship, and an ongoing fight for equality.
they're just words; cracker, honky, whatever else, that just bounce off...
Chicken Little was different from all the other chicks in her flock.
She had hatched far after the rest of them because she was terrified she would injure her beak from pecking through her shell.
It was the beginning of a long spiral of irrational fears that would come to a head one spring day when she was walking to school, hunched downward, not only because of the weight of her "survival pack", as she called it, but also she just had to make sure to count every single crack in the sidewalk, or else her mother's back would break, and she just couldn't have that happen. Who would make her breakfast each and every day? Her toast needed to be perfectly browned and spread with just the perfect smear of grape jelly. If the most important meal of the day was served off-kilter, what was there to say about the rest of the day as a whole?
When his wife was lowered into her grave that cold winter morning eighteen years ago, Adonis had sworn to himself that he would only tell his daughter the best parts of her mother, and keep the lesser-desired parts of her locked away in the depths of his heart. The pain of her death would only be his, and his alone.
When he saw his daughter break down, everything he had bottled up made its presence known in unbridled rage.
The Sun was just setting over the wayward skyline of Otterholm, and he couldn't help but smile. The summer months were always the ones worth reveling in. He reached in his pocket and felt the smooth wood that encased his dagger.
Oh, how sweet it would be, watching Edward LaMont shrivel down to the slimy bastard he was. As he neared the clerk's office, he let out a chuckle that rose from the very bowels of his being and stormed into...
o, keeper of my heart
you take my swirling mosaic
of hopes, desires, and dreams,
and clutch them in your gnarled hands.
o, how must i redeem myself,
to show you, o keeper,
that i am worthy of
going down the path that's
bright with opportunity?
my life has not been full of
hardship, or in the beginning,
it was not.
but from the reddened earth
i forced my insecurities
and their anger was rebirthed.
o, keeper of my heart,
you will never let me go,
so i will let your mutiny wash over
until i drown under your silk folds.
rewrite rewind, crumple pages and watch as they flush themselves down the wicker can.
they know they aren't worthy.
have you ever seen the colors of the notes
that slip from the sleek records that
your dad keeps in sleeves in the bookshelf in
the corner of the hot stuffy attic?
the Beatles are a whiny, opaque blue color,
like the chlorine in the public pool
that smells of rotting eggs.
i don’t care for them.
the animals shimmer ruby red and smell of cumin.
they’re good for finals week.
jimi hendrix is pink,
the pinkest pink that’s ever been birthed,
that’s why he’s off-limits.
arlene, you're an angry, angry woman, frankly with no reason to be.
you spend your days sitting at your Formica kitchen table, red lips rounded at the end of a Camel that burns bright with your misgivings. your Formica is your little desolate island away from your problems, is what you tell Kitty Taylor, your smoking buddy - the only difference between you and her is that she finds the time to get dinner on the table.
but that's beside the point. your problems are always nagging at you - your most current one is wailing in his cribs, fists balled up against his tiny cherublike face.
your problem has a soiled diaper that needs changing.
arlene, why did you choose to get married if you knew you could never provide? asked Kitty one afternoon as she opened up a fresh pack of Camelots.
young love took me over you answered drolly.
i have to give you credit, your...
why are the most evil people the ones that sit in the corners with placid, unmoving expressions. they stare at the weak with watered-down irises, and wait for the days they perish.
the ever present blade of memory clangs against his armor as he rides into battle once again. the blade is rusted, having been raised so high it scraped the surface of the planet Mars.
he tries in in vain not to look in the eyes of the man he's just skewered.
but still, the blade of memory etches the moment into the silken bowels of his brain.
my hotel room smell like Splenda, artificial and faux. i wish i could go home and be cradled in the ambiance of my room, where faded scraps of my childhood lay in all four corners.
When Adonis Rainsford opened his front door and was met with the sight of his daughter at the threshold, he knew that he had forced her into something he'd never should. The trees about the front lawn had blossomed with silk-petaled flowers that weighed down the arched branches.
"Oh, Papa." She breathed. "Papa, I'm so glad you're here."
"Darling, what are you doing here? You told me you were staying in Seafarer's Way for a few months longer in your last letter." He took in her presence. She was dressed in a simple white gown that sat shapelessly about her petite figure. Her hair sat loosely about her shoulders and was tousled gently by the breeze that blew on by. A knapsack sat limply by her feet. He swore he could see the corner of a book peeking out of the string-drawn opening.
"There was a change in plans. Ebenezer..noticed how homesick I was, and suggested I come home for...
The body of old Amos Matthews was greyed and puffy from having been lapped at by the waves all night.
"He was insane," The coroner muttered, the tails of his white coat flapping gently in the wind. "If it were up to me, I would put that down on the certificate." He grimaced
"That's not a reasonable cause of death, Andrew, and you know it." Sheriff Youngsley looked over at Ebenezer, who gently nodded. His face had gone a sickly shade of both grey and green.
"Get the boy out of here." The coroner looked at Ebenezer with his green eyes that crinkled with scrutiny. "He was only here to lead us to the body. He should get home to his lady."
Sheriff Youngsley sighed, tipped his hat back and turned on his heel to face Ebenezer. "You should check on Minerva, son. You know what they say, 'if your wife is content, the flowers gain their scent'."
"A death?" The sheriff stood up, coattails flapping about as his chair was pushed back. "Why, you two have only been in this town for a night."
"It..has been eventful to say the least." Minerva looked over at Ebenezer, who pretended to look interested in the view that peeked in through the concrete silled window.
The sheriff smiled a weak, compromising smile and ran his hands through his thin chestnut-brown hair. "I will call on my coroner, and we will get to the bottom of this. Though, I will need your help, young man." He held out his hand to Ebenezer in greeting. "Townsend Youngsley."
Ebenezer blinked, and he seemed to float back down to reality. "Ebenezer LaMont, and this is my..wife, Minerva." He reached out for Minerva's hand and squeezed it gently.
Sheriff Youngsley retracted his hand and reached for the wide-brimmed felt hat that sat upon his desk top. "Hello, Minerva."
She offered him a gentle smile, but...
Minerva felt more alone than ever that night. As the sky dipped down to the inkiness of midnight, she heard wailing.
Wailing, so loud and sorrowful, it shattered at her eardrums. A flash of light suddenly peeked its way past her billowing curtains and into her eyes. Minerva pressed her face into her pillow and let out a muffled moan.
It was only a foghorn. It had to be.
"Wait!" A strangled voice cut through the whispering winds. "O, siren, 'et me see me my Margaret, one more 'ime."
The wailing faded away almost instantly, and gone was the voice.
Minerva was too tired to even peer out her window, just to get a look at the disturbance - she wasn't even sure if it was real, or if her mind had fabricated such an event.
Ebenezer awoke her the next morning, his troubled tone snapped her out of her deepened slumber.
"Ebby..what is the matter?" Minerva sat up, her...
The ceremony took place in St. Augustine's Church the day after the ball.
The night before had been a blur to Minerva; she had spent most of it in the corner of the dance hall, trying to keep her tears from streaking through her cheek rouge. Ebenezer tried to appease their shared sorrow with glass after glass of champagne. While the meandering townsfolk made merry, dancing to the sweet melodies the orchestra provided, the fiancees stumbled out into the lily bushes and vomited up their drinks as discreetly as they could.
To rid themselves of their shared disgust, they drank again, and again, and again, until the Sun peeked over the sky.
Minerva awoke in sprawled across her bed. She peeked over the edge to find Ebenezer curled up on her imported Persian rug, a puddle of drool having leaked from his mouth, which hung agape.
"Ebby..wake up, please.." She groaned, vision blurred.
Ebenezer blinked slowly, one eye after the other....
Two days passed before the seams of her world started to pull and fray.
"Sally, must I wear a corset?" Minerva looked at herself in her mirror with utter disdain. Sally poked her head out from around the girl's frame. Her thick lips turned up into a smile. Her beady green eyes seemed to get smaller. "Aye, Miss Minerva, if ye want to look as pretty as the lilies in ye front yard, you must 'uffer the consequences. Tonight is your suitor's ball."
"Sally, if I had a dime for every time I heard that, I could buy myself a home." Minerva patted down the heavy layers of her underskirts and winced as Sally pulled the satin laces of her corset yet again. She could feel her ribcage collapsing in on itself.
"Maybe you could buy yourself a castle.."
Minerva's gaze flicked to the corner of her mirror, where Sally's granddaughter, Becky sat upon her canopied bed, her apron splayed...
Adonis Rainsford saw his daughter as something delicate, like the lilies that dotted the sweetgrass patches in front of their home.
Minerva had been that way since she the day she was born; she had barely let out a cry, rather a mewl.
The only thing that could have made that orange-splattered morning even better was if his wife had lived through her birth. The midwife offered her condolences, but nothing could be done.
Adonis chose not to think about her, starting from the moment she was dressed in her Sunday best, put in a coffin, and laid in the ground.
Minerva's beauty was regarded by the whole of Otterholm as she blossomed into a young woman, who wore frilly dresses and petticoats that swirled about her shapely figure with a silent sort of grace. Her pale, smooth skin was unblemished, always dusted with a cloud of crimson blush and spotted with freckles that only appeared when the summer arrived. ...
American literature pours over me like Ripple, in a curvaceous brown bottle
it makes me nauseous and its not worth listening to.
Authors penned their works in the golden hours of a breakdown,
in most cases, caressed by Angel's Dust and Jack's.
Maybe if I knew a backstory without listless struggle
I would be tempted to peer into their heads and wonder why.
I ripped up my copy of the Crucible, the red aura around the print
burned through my retina.
I am blind to the Classics, and
I don't regret it.
i hope for the day that my hands will cup the petals of a flower. i will raise them to the sky like an offering to a higher power, and watch as they float in unorthodox matrimony, and bring hope to those whose backs are torn and bent from grief.
the last words my great aunt Cleopatra told me when she was on her deathbed weren’t words at all. she handed me a small grey band adorned with an emerald so large, so intrinsically captivating, i thought i was holding a tiny planet. slivers of wandering grey and swirling blue and arresting pink blessed my eyes.
in that simple exchange, i had been handed not a piece of jewelry, but a rite of passage thick with the auburn glaze of my ancestral roots.
my bathroom was not my own.
in the center of a snow-white tiled floor was a tub with clawed feet and in it sat two tigers, ferocious, yet calculated gazes locked on me. one purred and let me run my hands through its thick mane.
i was stripped of my fear in that moment, when i heard the beginnings of an echoing growl lap at its throat.
for some reason, God chose a star
barely five minutes old,
and told it, with His booming voice
"the trinity is within you."
the star was placed in a vessel,
a screaming, wailing vessel with
mused dark hair that stuck out from
under a little cap.
she was given a languid name
with letters that weaved in and
out between her parents' fingers.
they thought she would be easy to mold
especially when she bowed her head
and muttered the Hail Mary.
what the Star didn't understand,
was what God meant by
his final words to it.
then one day,
the girl's mother and father
showed her the tree of generations
the wrinkled brown gaze of her
Nonno Antonio seemed to drift into the
pale blue stoic eyes of her
a path of immigrants whose hunger
for hope was satiated with a sip of
backwashed wine and a singular
the girl was a skeptic,
if i die young, i will die knowing that at least four percent of the people i met will have vehemently despised me.
the ones who love me, the other thirty-five percent, if we're being real, will know i won't want an open casket, but rather to be wrapped in the finest satin and laid on a bed of roses.
those who know really know me, know that i want to be remembered for everything, the good, the bad, and the downright ugly. not every person is going to be polished-shoes-halo-wearing-good, for God's sake. i don't want a droll obituary that's merely an astute timeline of my life, but rather vibrant stories, full of swears and pages that reek of silouetted-smoke.
i'm merely romanticizing the end; but the thought of a satin-lined coffin is maddeningly enticing.
even the boy with the prize winning smile and baby blue eyes wasn't safe from slipping.
he had his Blackberry in one hand, his other on the wheel.
because of his stupidity, his failure to take notice of his mother's chastising tone, he's in a box in the ground, with no way out and no response as to why he did it.
now his teammates stand in broad-shouldered solidarity in hopes that their fallen brother, their leader, the quarterback, has found peace.
it's the only thing worth hoping for in the moment, even if it isn't ideal.
Dietz Osterman had never climbed a mountain before.
he only did it because his father promised to pay him a handsome sum in return for his act of pure bravery.
"but what is so brave about that? there is nothing to revel in once you reach the top." Dietz had replied petulantly.
halfway to the top of Mount Esterhelm, he let go of the jagged edges he'd scaled for weeks upon weeks and fluttered into the white beyond that would inevitably become his makeshift resting place.
in his wake, his father used the handsome sum he'd set aside for his only son and spent it on alcohol, crates and crates of the finest imports from all over Europe, Asia, and everywhere in between.
he died with a bottle in his hand and his head between his knees.
her eyes were made of moonbeams. her lips were formed from two-toned galaxies. she shaded her face with the corpse of a dead star.
he looked in too deep, and started back to square one. she cackled as he retreated back to black.
that was where men belonged, in her battlefield of a mind, skewered from life lived on the jagged edges of silk worn streets.
the girl with lemon-yellow Chucks was chronically happy. her face was littered with constellations of freckles that aligned perfectly when the Sun hit them at just the right angle. she bolted up and down the unevenly paved streets of San Francisco, legs pumping wildly as she sprinted to catch the four o'clock trolley.
of course, no one saw her, for she wore a halo upon her head.
she didn't care - it was nice to be taking another ride on one of these things, even if it was the one that struck her dead one August afternoon. she could still see the dried blood on the rusted wheels.
Minerva Rainsford had loved the water since she was a little girl, but was never allowed to go near it.
her father didn't care for it. he preferred to mull over the emerald green blades that spurred endlessly from the tight packed red soil.
their mansion overlooked the Ocean, a part of it that their sleepy little town had christened the Siren's Knoll.
each day after classes, Minerva would set her lunch pail and books on their porch and peer over the edge, just to watch the aquamarine being caress the jagged black rocks that stuck up from the murky seafloor with their shapeless forms.
her want to break the roots that held her down by her satin slippers and become one with the gods below became more and more insatiable, until on her eighteenth birthday, she did it.
she slipped off each one of her frilly layers until she was only in her shift and jumped.
her father had...
unyielding, unseeing, unsung and unafraid.
a series of negatives flew out his ears as his little mint green Volkswagen slammed into the rear-end of an eighteen wheeler that was carrying crates upon crates of strawberries straight from Watsonville.
a news helicopter wafted over the dreary, red splattered scene, but even the camera couldn't make out whether it was strawberry juice or mangled brain matter.
a series of negatives is what led to his death; the weight of his own deprecation hung from his arms like twin ball-and-chains, and left him frozen.
he couldn't turn the wheel in time.
a series of negatives that are meant to be positives, but only when drenched in the citrus juices of the morning Sun.
the whispering hill behind my house
is where i kissed a boy
with sea green eyes
that were clear and opaque,
it's also where he asked for my
forgiveness after a picture of him surfaced
in my messages.
a full bodied cheerleader was sat in his lap,
her quarter-cut amber irises arresting the phone camera lens.
the whispering hill behind my house is gone.
it's been replaced with a shed
that's still empty,
even though its been a year since its passing.
i had my time to grieve.
o, hill, the secrets you took
as you were blown to reddened bits.
the memories left fragmented..
..but live in my mind, still picture perfect.
whispering hill, if you ever arise again
listen to my advice,
don't open your heart up for wanderers
they'll leave you, with other women to
in the beginning
of my breakdown,
each day was unpredictable
like a coin being flipped
constantly and without fail
landing with tails face up for
all to jeer and point at.
i took my dignity
and molded them into
(or at least, that was the intent)
little did i know,
they would stick with those
who wanted more,
is not for anyone
but rather, a thank you
to all of those who
unbeknownst to them
reached out a hand
and pulled me from
the growling jowls of
my own mind.
heapfuls of my young life/ have been marred by the prints of Harlan Coben/tales of greed, forlorn love, and pure insanity/still fail to answer a constant question of mine/is morality only a myth?/Dominick Dunne/has taught me more about people in three hours/ than my own parents have/some part of me thinks it's sad/considering the fact that he's been dead, for like, over a decade/fascination overtakes me/picking apart the most shrouded personalities and orchestrating them on paper like an impromptu concerto/people gasp and give standing ovations/while the judge bangs his gavel/i suppose america's follies and cracks could be trailed all the way back to levi weeks/but that would be reading too much into it/would it not?
i am not a person who is wise to an otherworldly extent.
christ, i can barely tie my shoe right. sometimes i wonder why i do it, why i write
is it an escape from a world that has given me more than i can hold in both hands or
count with ten fingers?
quite honestly, yes.
think of it like this; it is easy to paint a picture and give it depth with a few
flicks of your wrist and a gradient of greens and blues and pinks,
it's another idea completely, to live in it.
i remember one time i was at my therapist, and she expressed
my mom's worries that i was spending too much time in my worlds
accessed through clicking keys.
i nodded and gave her the notion that i would try
to pull my head up from the sand and take in
the fresh air.
of course, that didn't happen.
i still keep my...
beat up old jalopy
with the ripped vinyl seats
and the rusted steering wheel,
you're my ticket out of this
i look at my father,
slumped over in
that broken la-z-boy
that's stuck in the recline
position, with his blank
and unsmiling mouth.
i'm grieving, even though
he hasn't even left.
beat up old
forgotten and abused
you're my vessel to a
life completely anew.
Looking down Route 66 is not a
my dad was old when he had me.
but i never saw it that way.
my young eyes pried away from the
peppered streaks in his usually
jet black hair and the wrinkles that
lined his thin lips.
his eyes are dewy and soft,
like spring moss that clings
to a bridge overlooking
my dad was old when he had me
and weaved The Beatles and the Doors
in my uneven braids.
he always tried his best.
he never liked to read,
so he pushed it on me instead.
for that i will always be grateful
for the worlds that fill my head.
he still shows me yellowed newsprints
from the Moon Landing and Watergate,
JFK's Camelot and Kent State.
He shows me cartoons, so simple
i have grown older now,
but i am leaving him for good,
in his own eyes.
please know, my
dear, dear father.
i don't want to say goodbye.
enter through the overarching doorway made of oak from the
stumps that litter the front lawn, so meticulously cared for
by the groundskeeper whose back is starting to curve from
i don't think he has health insurance.
god better actually bless his soul or something.
it's really weird to sit next to your neighbors as
you shuffle through the masses of canada goose
jackets and ugg boots.
sometimes you'll share a smile with
the single mom who teaches pilates at the
local gym by day, but pores over medical
textbooks once the moon shows its
her face looks washed out and tired
in the overhead lights.
but still then, i can't have
my thoughts to myself for too long.
sol deo gloria it is.
i pick up the bible that sits beside me
and flip through it as the priest's sermon
goes on; his grey words are nothing
i haven't heard before.
the spine cracks and...
drops of rose essence
lined her greyed lips.
they put her in the reddened soil and waited.
but she did not blossom, like a bulb does
when nurtured by gaia's motherly grasp.
he danced in the rain
and let himself be
caressed by the mist.
but he looked in for too long
and fell into an everlasting pool of doubt
they found him a week later, a pale shell
of who he used to be.
nike points an accusatory marble
finger at those who deserve
dateline is my only source of comfort in this world
in a way,
i'm glad i'm someone who can fade into the crowds
whose frame clings to the air,
away from those whose eyes glow green with malice.
those who deny the blood that collected in the creases
of their palms
only hope that when their time comes,
they can reach up and feel their angels' wings.
those ones are the saddest ones.
i imagine scouring the grassy knolls off the
side of I-90, hands gloved so that i don't
disturb the shell of the killing blow
that took the life of someone
who never meant any harm
to begin with.
my conclusion, after hours and hours
of watching and theorizing and crying
and dreaming and fearing?
justice isn't a dish best served cold
it's an empty plate, if you play
your cards just right.
upon the grassy knoll
i celebrate our conquest,
against our red-clad enemies
the bells and skins of drums
oh, i could drop my gun and
take my soldier's fee and let dionysus
bless me with sour wine.
i've no need for charity
a lace gloved hand
sets itself upon my shoulder,
and i'm met with the face of
a woman, shaded by a wide brimmed hat.
clear pools of ice sear mine.
"you've already reached
out for the vine, now you
must place your fate in
the knowledge of the divine."
i feel the taste of iron
leave my mouth
as i float up towards
with the help
of my angel de la revolution.
i thought i chose the right words
that would save it from execution.
i was wrong.
oh, what a nuisance.
i thought i chose the right words
the words that would keep others safe.
that clearly wasn't the case.
i swing my legs back and forth as i look at
the textured minefield below,
cold and dry.
another set of feet join mine,
a pair of wingtips with ratty
"you know this is going to hurt.
are you sure you don't want to
turn back now?" his voice
is calm and even, but a bitter chill
still clings onto it, fingers pressed
to its lips.
"i need it to survive."
that's when i look up,
past his vanilla-plain expression
and see the syringe poised in his
sweet, swirling stardust, spinning
and shouting and screaming my name.
i feel my eyes go bright,
blessed with colors better left unseen.
"feel better now?"
i push a wadfull of hundreds in his
jacket pocket and climb out the window.
i can feel the fresh air again.
but it will all be gone soon
when my strange addiction
sitting on the bridge
in front of the
florescent blue moon
is a washed up old
jazz piano player
whose walls were
pictures of his
all of them are
he thinks looking
out on the ink-black
will help him to think
but it only makes him sadder.
his early years were
filled with drinking
and floating saxophone
notes that glowed
so where did
it all go wrong?
the jazz player
that comes up
into sorrowful song
from the whirlpool
under the bridge
with the florescent
blue moon shining
on his limp figure.
what is there to live
for if tomorrow never comes?
will we frolic in today
and lie before the final
sit on grandmere's
into blocky angles
i reached up a hand
i dropped it,
my tiny fingers
failed to hold on.
and i watched
pieces of heaven
along with the light in
do you often look upon
your barren ranch
and think of times
do you still dot your i’s
and cross your t’s
in the dirt beneath
your wingtip shoes?
sometimes i think
that you tip your hat
down over your eyes
so you don’t have to
face the ghastly face of
your long-gone father,
who you dreamed was
take a look at your
i’m a lot like you.
i need someone to
love me the whole way
watch me, with my wild
young hair as i strum
look in my eyes,
and let me see your truth.
do not be afraid
to think of times
wrap golden twine
about the memories
you so deftly dismembered.
going through the
minefield of instagram comments
splattered with teens/
who call each other sluts and whores/
just to get a dopamine rush.
your windswept curls look so
fragile, entwined with snowflakes.
and you look so sorrowful,
with your eyes full of
glassy, frigid tears.
you pulled me into
your arms and told
me you were sorry,
sorry for pushing me off
to the side for people
who were sat up against
the walls of your head
and stayed there rent-free.
i want to trust you again, boy.
but i can't.
perhaps i was wrong in the moment
to sever the
cords between us
but it's clear your wounds are still
fresh, oozing with pure, onyx-black
A child of the ganglands. That's what Adonis Rainsford was. He prowled the streets of the Bronx with his head down and his back arched ever so slightly. His profile was strong and chiseled, his nose seemed to protrude from his face, but not like the beak of a bird's, but rather like a Roman statue. He had green eyes that pierced whoever dared to look in his direction, framed with long lashes.
He could stand a little straighter if he wasn't burdened with the guilt of what the men in his family had done before him, maybe. Maybe not.
o, boy with windswept curls divine
that fall into your sea green eyes,
heavy lidded and ringed with liner
as you stare into my camera lens
what is it about me,
that only makes me your friend?
a word drenched in sweet tea and whispers
and books that go on for pages about some
fucking bird in a tree.
So meaningful, but in this case
it’s an insult, marred with blood and gore
especially when our lips
have met more than once before.
I’m not gonna start off with berating
That doesn’t help anyone, does it?
I knew you got made fun off ‘cause your moms were..well, moms, and they were divorced.
I knew they spoiled you.
That’s why you turned out the way you did.
But why, why did you have to make fun of my limp?
It was something so small..
..you turned me into the kid that everyone pitied.
That reputation still follows me, sort of.
So thanks for that.
I have q bit of dirt on my hands, too.
I called you fat behind your back, to
My group of outsiders.
I thought I was being rebellious,
Until I eavesdropped on your...
be wary of the concrete
jungle where dreams /are made
grafitti crowns sit wayward
and dwellers prowl
reveling in their nightly bloody
stars are put upon
reigning high over
so far from maybe
thr slums in which they
as far away from the
beginning as they can.
polaroids taken at
angles askew, show them
with glazed eyes and with
and they are produced on
sleek pages each week
for us to devour,
for us to seek
beauty and riches
that we only dream of.
sadly, some stars fall
much too soon
whether it was drugs or
anything in between
i can say this;
”at least they got on the screen.”
this season is devoid of the magic,
the euphoria that envelopes my
body and reddens my cheeks.
but after looking upon
my gradient world
it is i who is
devoid of what
my body is
an empty cavity.
i am vying, yearning,
some wintry majesty.
picasso plagues my mind some
nights, splattering the thin
silk walls of my grey matter
with distorted irises
and wilted lips.
i can't seem to rouse myself
from my spotted, whizzing
and when i do,
my face shimmers with
curlicues of sweat.
picasso plagues my
mind some nights
my brain swirls
fists up for a fight.
why couldn't it have
my world has always been concrete,
but full of people that broke too easily.
maybe it was the weight of their worlds,
or maybe it was me.
i don’t see a point in blaming myself what i was not responsible for;
but still, I’m branded as a spoiled child who depends on the
safety net below her so she doesn’t have to work hard.
it hurts to know that your parents
don’t think that you’re going to be anything.
i guess it means I’m nothing more than a paper doll,
marred with scars that I gave myself purely because of my laziness.
goddamn, i hope this doesn't
turn out wrong.
hi, me. well..you.
i hope you aren't smoking
as a way to cope with the
holes in your childhood,
grey haze spiraling out from
between your lips.
i hope you aren't drinking
because we..you tried a sip of
yuengling before and
spat in on uncle
that one time at the garden party.
substances aren't worth it.
but you know what is worth it?
you got your act together and
went to emerson right?
you wore fluffy sweatshirts
and robin's egg colored
nail polish every day of the week?
and you wrote wherever you
saw fit, and found a person
who understood your brand of
maybe that person,
will want to stay
because you learned not
to push people away with
your prideful chest.
and you'll look at each other
with as much love as you
can manage, maybe sloshing
bucket-fulls of it.
you'll get an apartment
a home i never knew
but a home i want to
get to know,
is where my feet
sun or shine,
rain or snow.
i’m not the most flowery person on the outside/but inside, i am growing a garden of words that are meant to mean something/this..thing?/that is something i do not know/maybe i will never know/
i slip in the marble crevasses of doubt; it is ever so easy. i could recount the steps backwards and forwards, forwards and back. nursing the scars you gave yourself, rather your reflection. a shimmering sliver of one part you hate of yourself. the mirror isn’t my friend, neither is my own brain. how wild is that?